THE GLORIOUS ELEVENTH

The twelfth of the seventh, boys,
the Battle of Aughrim cleaned
fair Ulster of Catholic scum;
yet strangely the date's become
the Day of the Boyne, which gleaned
the standing it now enjoys.

But, Aughrim or Boyne, we tread
past hovels of Popish poor,
reminding them of defeat.
Yes, never will we retreat
or yield to the Popish Whore:
our Orange will paint streets red.

Then work on the bellows, lad,
and fan up the sacred flame
of comforting Orange hate.
In short we will demonstrate
the Protestant people's claim
to Ulster in fair jihad.

Now Jesus, an orange sash
about him, a bowler on,
Grand Master of things to come
precedes the peremptory drum.
He'll fight till green snakes are gone,
are burned in the blaze to ash.

The Catholic fiends will quake
behind their fast bolted doors
as we in a festive mood
express our sweet gratitude
to Billy - and then we pause
to take the fuel can and shake

on rags that we mail alight
to set their front halls on fire.
We'll see all the Papists bake
like heretics at the stake.
Of this we will never tire -
seeing Catholics burning bright.

Then march to the drum and fife,
our bowlers and banners high!
Who wants to explore the peace?
The fun of this war won't cease
while Molotov cocktails fly
and drummers scan Death and Life.